After
by Vesper95
Summary: How the Weasleys, predominantly George, cope after losing Fred.


All characters and the occasional quote go to JK Rowling

It was the first time George had moved in the past few days. It took a while for everyone to register his movement but when they did they assumed he was pacing. It was only when he came to an abrupt halt that they knew something was wrong. He had stopped next to the Weasley clock. And the look upon George's face was a pained mixture of grief and resentment. He suddenly ripped open the glass covering and pulled Fred's clock hand out, staring at it quickly before pocketing it and walking outside. The rest of the Weasleys followed his movements as he walked out into the garden and stood for a while. It was only a momentary pause. His hand dove straight back into his pocket and he threw Fred's hand as far as he could with a force that was powered by the most pain he had ever felt. The strangled scream that emitted from George as he threw it was agonizing to hear, let alone witness as he slumped to the floor, the look of anguish on his face masked by his hands as he finally collapsed in on himself. His sobs were like nothing they had ever heard and it pained each and every one of them to know that there was nothing they could do to help. The only person that would know what to do is now the only person they can never, will never see again. With a pang some of them realised that in a twisted turn of fate they would see Fred every day. Whenever they looked at George. They would see hints of him upon his twins face. And that made it so much worse.

Molly turned away from the sight of George through the window. She couldn't look anymore. The twins, she thought. My twins. Except now there were no 'twins'. She would never get any of her sons muddled up again. And after all those years where she chastised Fred and George for tormenting her in that manner, she broke down. She would give anything to hear Fred says those words, no matter how much they had irked her at the time. 'Honestly woman, you call yourself our mother!' His voice swam around her head. 'Mother'. She would never hear it said again in that voice.  
She looked over at the clock. Despite only one hand being missing it created a void that seemed endless. No wonder George had finally snapped and taken Fred's hand out. There was nowhere for it to point. There was no segment that said that word. Dead. For the last three days his hand had been flickering at Mortal Peril, simply because it had nowhere else it could point. At least now it was calm again. It's struggle had finally ended. Much like Fred's, Molly realised with a jolt.

It's over. It's over. She kept saying these words over inside her head and after a while they took on a whole new meaning. One which wasn't quite so consoling. It started out as a mantra she would use, to comfort herself that no more of her family would be harmed. That this war was finally at an end. No more terror would jeopardise everything she held dear. Yet now it just seemed to Molly as if those words were taunting her. That _it_ was over. Her son was lying dead and there was nothing she could do to change that. There was no going back. End of story. Goodbye. That she may as well give up. It's over. There's no point in carrying on.

Little did she know that these thoughts were exactly what were running through George's head full speed. Everyone had kept saying those two words to him over the past few days. Placing a hand on his shoulder and saying it as calmly as they could, trying to comfort him. As if they were implying that he would just jump out of bed the next day and everything would be rosy. Morons, he shouted to himself. They had no idea. They had no idea what it was like to look in a mirror or see your reflection in a window and have a part of you die every time. They had no idea what it was like to search and search for a memory of a happier time that would make him feel better, but find none because every single blasted memory of his contained him, Fred. Nowhere had there been a time where there was a George but no Fred to go with him. How could he ever be expected to be just George. Everyone knew 'Fred and George', as a pair, a duo. But who had ever heard of just George? And he was in no way prepared for it to become a normal thing. He would never become accustomed to it.

He hadn't spoken much these past few days but when he did it was a hollow sound. There wasn't a second accompanying voice, finishing the sentences. The sound was too harsh, it had too many edges to it. But at the same time it was so painfully empty. And it echoed too much in his opinion. So he didn't speak. It was better to not have to listen to it for the time being.

There was no way he could ever fully realise. After two decades together. Twenty years ripped apart. Squashed flat into oblivion quicker than he could blink.  
Even on the day of his wedding he realised how little he had progressed with coming to terms with it all. That day was probably the happiest he had been since, well, since then. And he moved to turn around to his best man with his stupid grin plastered over his face. Which withered and crumbled to nothing the moment he fully fathomed that it wasn't his twin grinning goofily back at him.

The day Angelina gave birth to their first child, a son, should have been momentous. And it was, just not in the way George would have liked. As the rest of the family waited to hear the child's name his mind was in turmoil. If he gave in to himself his child would grow up not knowing why his name was on a gravestone. He would never really understand the weight behind that four letter word. The pain that would rush through George like a tidal wave every time he called to his son. But he had to do it. And the ache would dull in time. Eventually.

He stood in front of his family, the tiny red haired bundle contained within his arms and said that small word for the first time since he had lost its owner. 'Fred'. It hurt, but for once there was a twinge of happiness and relief.  
He looked down at his son as if for the first time again. He lifted him up so as to whisper in his ear. 'Definitely not mischief managed, Fred. Not yet.'


End file.
